


smile

by PaperRevolution



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Detective Noir, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Missing Persons, Politics, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: superhero turned private investigator aredhel ar-feiniel just wants to keep her head down and make enough money to cover the rent for her shitty apartment. but when her eldest brother shows up desperate on her doorstep and asks her to help him locate his missing boyfriend, aredhel is forced not only to deal with her own ghosts but also to face a new enemy far deadlier than she could have imagined.meanwhile maeglin, aredhel’s teenage son who lives across town with his uncle turgon, has become embroiled in a plot for the destruction of the city.





	1. AKA Don't Do Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I wanted an AU "in which Aredhel is basically Jessica Jones", so I granted my own wish. Or something.  
> 2.) As such, warnings for implied sexual abuse, trauma-related mental health issues, and implied alcohol abuse throughout.

“You mean to tell me,” says Turgon, looking put-upon, “That you threw this guy through a wall.”

Aredhel attempts to arrange her face into an at least somewhat contrite expression. It’s the same drill as always; her in the doorway, him in his fancy office chair, a frosted glass desk stacked with piles of paperwork between them. The whole setup makes her feel like she’s outstayed her welcome before she’s even put a foot over the threshold.

“He tried to hit me,” she tells him. She knows she sounds defensive, but she can’t bring herself to care all that much. “Didn’t take too kindly to being told that yeah, he was right about his wife of five years cheating on him with her hairdresser.”

Turgon’s latest intern, a tall young man with a shock of bright blond curls, looks up from the papers he’s filing and lets out a half-suppressed snort of laughter. Aredhel’s brother gives him a quelling look.

“You keep doing this kind of thing to your clients,” Turgon points out wryly, “And there’s going to come a day when I can’t bail you out.”

Aredhel stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “It was self-defence,” she says, flatly.

Closing his eyes momentarily, Turgon visibly represses a sigh. “Irissë—”

She exhales loudly. “Did you actually want to talk about something important, or can I go now?” Outside the window, a distant aeroplane carves a thin white line in the flat winter-blue sky. “Because I’m tired, and I have a hole in my wall and a door that needs fixing.”

“If you’re sticking around,” the intern puts in helpfully, “I’m about to make coffee.” He smiles winningly, and Aredhel raises her eyes ceilingward.

“I’m good,” she tells him, dryly. He gives her a blithe, ‘suit yourself’ kind of shrug and goes back to what he’s doing.

“I can send someone to sort the door out,” Turgon begins, and his voice is heavy with something Aredhel doesn’t have the energy to try and figure out. “You shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts him again. “Look, thanks for smoothing things over, but I really gotta go.”

She turns, bone-tired suddenly, and jerks the door open.

“Next Saturday,” says her brother before she can take another step. He sounds carefully neutral, now. “Don’t forget. Maeglin’s looking forward to it.”

I bet, she thinks derisively, but does not say.

“Yeah, yeah, the Italian place just off of Nevrast Street,” she agrees without turning. “Your fifty-million messages have carved it indelibly into my memory.”

She’s out of the door before he can reply, letting it slam shut behind her.

Saturday. The word bounces around in her brain as her footsteps carry her towards the elevator. Dinner with Turgon and Maeglin. Probably Idril as well. Her stomach writhes; guilt and something else she can’t name.

The elevator pings open. It’s empty. Which, Aredhel thinks ruefully, is about the only good thing that’s happened to her all day.

*

The people in the apartment above hers are fighting again.

Aredhel turns up the volume of the shitty reality show she’s watching on her laptop. The contestants’ petty dramas are a distraction, which is good, but also kind of grating, which is less good.

“They’re definitely sleeping together,” says a guy on the screen. Megawatt fake tan; megawatt smile. She thinks maybe he models underwear for some catalogue or something. “Not that I give a fuck. Oh my god, can I swear? Are we live?”

She takes a swig of bourbon. Tilts her head back. Shuts her eyes tight and then opens them again. She releases a long breath.

Above her head, the shouting intensifies.

Abruptly, she sets down the bottle of bourbon and gets up. She stuffs her feet into a pair of boots, stooping briefly to tuck in the laces rather than bothering to tie them.

Her phone, a years-old thing with actual buttons for numbers and no internet connection to speak of, lies on the desk beside her laptop like a large, dormant beetle. She snatches it up and hits the only number she has on speed dial.

*

“Holy fuck,” says Celegorm, sweat-sheened, breathing hard. “Holy fuck.”

Aredhel lies on her back, full of a warm, deep ache. Strands of Celegorm’s hair tickle her shoulders as he rolls off her. So now they are next to each other on his king-size bed and apart from the serrated dissonance of their breaths colliding with one another, his apartment is blessedly quiet.

“Been a while,” continues Celegorm. The first words—‘Holy fucks’ aside—he’s spoken since she pushed open his door nearly an hour ago. “Where the fuck you been?”

Aredhel shrugs, eyes fixed on the blank ceiling. “I got busy.”

She feels him grin.

“Been fucking this chick who lives in Curvo’s building,” he tells her, like he’s showing off. Which is ridiculous and familiar and weirdly comforting. “She’s decent. Likes to experiment. But you know how it goes, I prefer brunettes.”

Aredhel snorts. “You prefer anyone who bears a passing resemblance to Lúthien Tinúviel.”

The mattress shifts. “Fuck you.”

“Go again?”

“Fuck yes.”

*

Outside her apartment door (still broken), face drawn and wan in the watery late-morning sunlight filtering in through the single narrow window at the end of the hall, Aredhel’s eldest brother is waiting for her.

“Where were you?” demands Fingon the moment the elevator discharges her. “I tried to call you.”

Aredhel blinks blearily, reaching up to tuck strands of draggled hair behind her ears. “I—”

“I left a bunch of messages,” Fingon barrels on, pushing off from the wall and moving to meet her. “I was worried. Where’ve you been?”

She shrugs. “With Tyelko,” she tells him. Her mouth feels full of cotton.

Something in Fingon’s expression shifts. He comes to a sudden standstill. “Did he tell you?”

Below them, the dull thud of electronica starts up, insistent. Who the fuck, Aredhel thinks wearily, plays goddamn dance music at this time of day?

“Tell me—what?” It must be almost noon, and still she feels only half awake.

Fingon lets out a rushed breath. “Maitimo,” he says. “He hasn’t been returning my calls. No one’s seen him in over a week. I need—” He pauses raggedly. “I need you to help me find him.”

*

Maedhros wakes in a windowless room.

“Good morning,” says the man who has introduced himself as Melkor, watching him. His voice is smooth and even, low and musical. “That’s it, open your eyes. Isn’t it good to be awake? The whole day ahead of us. All those possibilities.” He smiles a spiky sort of smile, close-mouthed and knowing. “Don’t move,” he goes on as Maedhros raises his head muzzily. “There’s no need for us to rush ourselves, is there? We’ve got nothing but time.”

Nothing…but…time. Maedhros swallows thickly. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth. He wills himself to move.

“Your father’s been trying to reach you,” Melkor leans forward conspiratorially in his seat. “Who’s going to manage his campaign now, I wonder? Surely not what’s-his-name, that wet weekend? Maglor.” He wrinkles his nose delicately. “Anyway. We don’t have to worry about any of that just now.”

Maedhros’ heart pounds, but his limbs feel weighted. Melkor reaches out a hand and lightly brushes a few stray strands of damp hair back from his face. It’s such a tiny thing, but it’s so intimate and so proprietary that Maedhros feels his stomach constrict and his skin prickle with revulsion. He tastes bile at the back of his throat.

“Come on, now,” Melkor tuts and shakes his head. “We’re going to have a hell of a time. The best you’ve ever had.” He laughs softly. “Smile.”

And Maedhros, suddenly unable to stop himself, unable to stop the feeling of awful anticipation rising in him on command, smiles.


	2. AKA Everything You Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a family dinner really doesn't go as planned, and Aredhel begins to investigate the disappearance of Maedhros.

“Had he been behaving differently at all, before he disappeared?” Aredhel asks perfunctorily. “Did you notice anything strange?”

Maglor clasps his hands together in his lap, lacing his long, pale fingers tightly. There is a momentary pause before he shakes his head.

“I didn’t notice anything,” he says bleakly, “But that doesn’t really mean much. I haven’t really been around a lot, lately.”

Aredhel leans forward, planting her elbows on her knees and looking directly at Maglor over the blocky coffee-table between them. It’s littered with books—most of them open at random pages—and with half-finished mugs of tea, and with pens and open cans of beer and an empty glasses case and all manner of other things. The apartment Maglor shares with his elder brother is almost as much of a mess as Aredhel’s own, but it reeks of money. The paint on the walls is a tasteful, soft matte grey, the floors are polished hardwood, and the view from the living room window is some pretentious photographer’s dream.

“Think very carefully,” she says. “Anything you can tell me, might be helpful.”

Beside her, sitting stiff as a waxwork, Fingon exhales heavily. Aredhel would be willing to bet that he’s thinking pretty much the same thing she is: that this has been a huge waste of their time.

There’s a long silence. Aredhel doesn’t need to look at Fingon to know that he’s radiating impatience like heat.

Maglor looks tormented. “There’s nothing—I can’t think of anything. I wish I could help. Believe me, I wish I could help. But if there’s been anything going on with Maitimo…Well, if there has, I didn’t know about it.” He looks fraught and hopeless, and Aredhel realises that he’s telling the truth. He has no idea where his brother might be.

“And there’s no reason you can think of that he might decide to up and leave?” she presses. “Stress at work? Family trouble? Anything like that?”

This makes Fingon let out a short, incredulous laugh. Aredhel glances at him sharply, and he shrugs jerkily in response.

“There’s always family trouble and stress at work,” he tells her, and she can hear the staccato agitation in his words. “But he wouldn’t just leave without telling anyone. He wouldn’t ditch his responsibilities like that. That’s not Mae.”

Aredhel lets out a derisive snort. “You’d be surprised,” she replies, “People do all kinds of weird stuff under pressure. Stuff that makes you question whether you know them at all.”

Maglor makes a wry face. “You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

“Yeah, well,” Aredhel feels a stab of irritation. “Think about what kind of job I’m in, genius. I get to see all kinds of people doing crazy shit, all the time. I could write a fucking book.”

Maglor looks sheepish. Fingon makes an irritated noise.

“We should just go,” he says abruptly, rising to his feet. “Clearly, Makalaurë doesn’t know anything—”

Aredhel huffs a sigh and grabs his arm, wrenching him back down. Her brother winces, gritting his teeth.

“Sorry,” she says automatically, letting go of him. He rotates his shoulder gingerly, his face tight with pain.

(The words rise unbidden in her mind: “Everything you touch, you break.”)

She turns her attention abruptly back to Maglor.

“When did you last see him?” she asks him roughly. “Maedhros. When was the last time you two spoke? What was he doing?”

For a moment, Maglor considers this. Aredhel watches him. His hands are never a moment still—now reaching up impatiently to push his hair out of his face; now repeatedly buckling and unbuckling the thin leather strap of his wristwatch. He’s full of a nervous energy much quieter than Fingon’s, but no less real.

“He called me,” he tells her finally. “Last Thursday afternoon—probably around five. He asked me if I’d record this dumb show he watches. Dad had asked him to go to some meeting or other on his behalf—it was really last minute; I don’t know why Dad couldn’t just go himself—and he wasn’t going to be home ‘til much later than he’d thought.”

“Of course fucking Curufinwë Fëanáro would just expect him to just drop everything,” says Aredhel dryly.

Maglor shrugs. “He’s Dad’s campaign manager,” he reminds her. “It’s kind of his job.”

Aredhel makes a dismissive gesture. “And he didn’t come home that night?”

At this, Maglor shrugs again, this time uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he tells her, and then pauses fractionally. “I went out, and I didn’t get back until—until a couple of days after that. Sunday, maybe? Yeah, Sunday.”

Three days and three nights. Aredhel arches an eyebrow. “Where were you?”

There’s another pause.

“Um,” says Maglor, looking distinctly awkward. “I was staying with a—a friend. Daeron. We’re, uh, we’re in a band together.”

Aredhel resists the urge to roll her eyes. Jesus fucking Christ, she thinks. How big is the Fëanorion family closet?

“Right,” she says aloud, flatly. “So, you don’t know if he ever came home after this meeting?”

Maglor shakes his head.

“And do you know who he was meeting with?”

Another shake of his head. “It won’t be in his work diary, either. Like I said, it was pretty last minute.”

Great. Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.

“Thanks for your time,” says Aredhel tonelessly, standing. Fingon rises with her, pulling on his jacket with careful motions. “Looks like your dad and I are gonna have a conversation. Which I’m sure will be just delightful.”

Maglor looks up at her miserably.

“Good luck with that,” he tells her.

And Aredhel knows she’ll need it.

*

Everything you touch, you break.

Aredhel keeps thinking of this. Of the way he’d said it, his voice silky-soft and almost remorseful. Of the way he’d reached for her; skimmed his hand gently over her jawbone; met her eyes and looked at her like he was really seeing her.

“You need help,” he’d told her. “Let me help you.”

With careful, forced restraint, Aredhel picks up her phone and keys in the number for Curufinwë Fëanáro’s office.

“Hi there,” she chirps, the moment his secretary answers. “My name’s Bronwyn Brightwood; I’m calling from Mahtan and Co. Architecture and Design.”

The line crackles with the secretary’s sharp intake of breath.

Bingo, Aredhel thinks.

“What can I help you with?” the secretary asks, carefully neutral.

Aredhel lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Well, see, um, I work for Mr Fëanáro’s wife,” she pauses fractionally for effect. “And, oh, this is really silly, but she was telling me this morning how much she wishes she’d never deleted his number, because she really wants to talk to him, but she’s, like, too proud to call up his office and ask for it, or anything like that.”

She pauses again. The secretary hums, sympathetic but still uncertain.

“And,” Aredhel continues in the same breezy, chipper voice, “She, like, doesn’t want to involve the kids in their drama, or something. It’s really kind of sweet. So, anyway, I was wondering… Would you be able to give me the number for Mr Fëanáro’s cell?”

There’s a moment of silence. She can practically hear the gears churning in the secretary’s head.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” she adds, as though the though has only just occurred to her. “If it’s, like, breaching confidentiality or something. I totally get it. Only, I know their youngest sons’ birthday is coming up real soon, and I just thought it would be super nice if Mr and Mrs F could work things out before then, you know?”

“Okay,” replies the other woman at length, “But you absolutely cannot give this number out to anyone else. I shouldn’t even be doing this, really, but those two NEED to get back together, so, you know, anything I can do to help with that…”

Aredhel, smirking to herself, reaches for a pen.

*

It’s six minutes to seven when Aredhel finally shows up at the Italian place just off Nevrast Street. Maeglin knows this, because he keeps checking the time on his phone—more to make a point, he tells himself, than because he actually cares about the fact that his mother is almost half an hour late.

“See,” says Idril, as the doors swing open inwards and Aredhel trudges inside, tracking snow across slate tiles. “I told you she’d be here.”

Maeglin’s uncle Turgon smiles forcedly, taking a small sip of wine as Aredhel approaches. She’s in ripped jeans, combat boots, a ratty white tank top and a leather jacket which is probably older than Maeglin himself. She looks windswept and exhausted and not at all like she wants to be there.

“Hey,” she says, dropping into the seat diagonally opposite Maeglin’s. “Sorry I’m late. Had to deal with a work thing.”

Turgon raises his eyebrows fractionally.

“Everything all right?” he enquires. By which, Maeglin knows, he really means “I hope there hasn’t been any more trouble.”

Aredhel shrugs, pouring herself a glass of Turgon’s Pinot Noir. To Maeglin, she says: “How’s it going, kid? School all right?”

Three months, three fucking months since she saw him last, and this is all she’s got to say to him?

Maeglin pulls a face. “Yeah, fine,” he mutters.

His mother takes a quick, deep swig of her wine. “Great,” she says, all half-assed fake enthusiasm. He doesn’t know why she bothers. He doesn’t know why any of them are even here at this phony-ass restaurant where everybody is bored and sophisticated and dressed in sharp lines and neutral colours. It’s all a big charade.

Then, without further preamble, Aredhel turns to Turgon. “You talk to Finno lately?” she asks him, and there’s a familiar hard edge to her voice. Maeglin gulps Pepsi; opens his phone; scrolls mindlessly through Facebook; closes it again.

Turgon, visibly bewildered, shakes his head.

“I have,” Aredhel tops up her glass. “Maedhros is missing.”

Across from Maeglin, Idril’s eyes widen. He wonders why she gives a shit about some guy she’s met maybe once or twice for like five minutes.

“Excuse me?” says Turgon. Maeglin can’t help noticing that he doesn’t sound particularly surprised.

“You heard me,” Aredhel says, looking not at him but down at her menu. “Findekáno showed up at my apartment yesterday, freaking the fuck out about it. He’s been gone about a week. Maybe more. Are you seriously telling me you don’t know anything about this?”

Maeglin pointedly gets out his phone again. Idril kicks him under the table.

He looks up. Idril crinkles her nose in a “Seriously?” expression. Maeglin, despite himself, puts his phone away.

Sighing, Turgon motions for a waiter. The conversation is stalled for a moment while the bland-faced young man takes their orders. When he leaves, there’s a momentary lull before Maeglin’s uncle says wearily:

“Of course I knew. The police are handling it.”

Aredhel laughs derisively.

“I don’t want you getting mixed up in whatever this is,” says Turgon in a low voice. “You and I both know Fëanor has a lot of enemies.”

“No shit. His campaign manager suddenly disappears, barely a month before the election, and you think I haven’t considered the possibility that this—whatever’s happened—was politically motivated?”

Turgon’s expression is pained. “Have you spoken to Fëanor?”

“I’m trying to. He won’t answer my god damn calls.”

“Well, then—”

“Are we seriously gonna do this?” Maeglin hears himself blurt out. “You say like five words to me and now we’re gonna spend the rest of dinner talking about some asshole Fëanorion? Like we’re supposed to give a shit.”

“Maeglin…” says Turgon, warningly.

But Maeglin ignores him.

“Why the fuck am I even here?” he demands, without knowing why he’s doing it. “You clearly don’t wanna talk to me. You don’t even wanna look at me. What, am I that disgusting to you?” He pauses, staring his mother down. “Bet I remind you of him, don’t I? Bet you can’t look at me without thinking about all the shit you let him do to us.”

Anger is beating through him like a second pulse, but somehow he barely feels it. Everything is far away. Nothing—the restaurant; his family; the feeling of pressure building in his chest—feels quite real.

Aredhel stares at him. For a moment, she’s completely still, her expression perfectly, eerily blank. Then—and Maeglin’s read about delayed reactions, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen one before; not like this—she draws in a sharp breath, her jaw clenching and her eyes widening. She rockets to her feet, shoving her chair back with such force that it sends spiderweb cracks across the tiled floor on impact.

Then, wordlessly, and without a backward glance, she bolts.

Maeglin stares after her as she weaves her way haphazardly between tables. He waits for a surge of bitter satisfaction, but it doesn’t come.

“Dad,” says Idril plaintively, but Turgon shakes his head.

“Let her go,” he responds, rising to his feet himself. “Get your coats on, you two. I’m getting the bill.”

Maeglin keeps his head low as he shrugs his jacket on. He can feel Idril’s stare burning into him, and he doesn’t want to meet her eyes. He doesn’t want to see the shock and frank reproval there.

Why is it, he wonders savagely, that everything he touches, he breaks?


End file.
